Raining Tea's Cold and I'M COLD and I AM THINKING TOO MUCH
by cLoswin
Summary: The trouble with quiet is that it's littered with the disadvantage of free thought. What are we doing with our lives?


London is gloomy. The skies are several shades of grey and the wind is ferocious. Watson and Holmes sit quietly in the flat; Sherlock is occupying himself at the table with a collection of scarred skin samples, whilst John has spread himself out comfortably across the sofa, and is mentally tracing the cracks and stains in the ceiling. The sound of raindrops pounding violently on Baker Street and the soft clinking of Sherlock's glass slides is all that fills their humble abode.

_The silence should be gorgeous_, John thinks to himself. Sherlock has a case to keep himself busy, leaving John with a much deserved break from the relentless scientific babbling and never ending danger that comes with being the sleuth's partner in crime.

Rather, the silence is deadly. This so called 'bliss' is flawed. Boredom isn't an issue; John is weak with fatigue and aching muscles from running around the city.

The trouble with quiet is that it's littered with the disadvantage of free thought.

This is relaxation, but it's laced with melancholy, cursed with curiosity, speckled with fear, these things resulting in whatever seems to cross John's mind.

Bugger. The afternoon really _was_ lovely.

"Hey, Sherlock?" John speaks with a volume generally not loud enough to disturb the serene cloud of cosy that weighed on the atmosphere of the flat. It fails however, to capture the attention of his irritable flatmate without earning a look of utmost repulsion in return.

The scowl ever present on Sherlock's face, he turns his glance toward John, who's still sunken into the cushions of the couch.

"Yes…John?" Sherlock's attempting to sound civil, but he might as well have spit the syllables.

Not an ounce of hurt surfaces, judging by the good doctor's expression. He's practiced in the art of tolerating-complete-arses. It's a valiant and admirable skill.

John sighs heavily. He decides to continue.

"What do you think happens after…all of this?"

Sherlock morphs his features in an instant. He shifts his position and looks at John inquisitively, studying John's face, his own resembling something like confusion. He stands up abruptly and heads over to the lounge, where he sits himself on the floor next to John's head, facing him. The distance is little, but comfortable.

"After…" Sherlock's calmed down now. He's quiet and like usual, quite eager to understand.

"Everything."

"What do you _mean?_" He whispers, the genuine lack of know and _want_ to comprehend obvious in the detective's tone.

"Well…after everything, Sherlock. After Mrs. Hudson finally decides to kick us out for our overdue rent. After we, _grow old_ and can't chase criminals across London any longer? After one of us finds something _else_ out there. After everything. What happens?"

_Sherlock won't understand, of course_, John thinks. _There's nothing for me out_ _there. _

John doesn't feel need to hide his unsettledness and gloom. He lets his eyes fall shut. He waits a moment or two, counting the beats that Sherlock pounds with his index finger and thumb against his tailored trousered leg, before he receives a reply.

"…I don't know." Sherlock admits, taken aback at his own self-questioning.

"Mmpph…exactly…"

"Yeah…huh. I. Don't. Know. That's a new feeling." Holmes smiles, it's a genuine one.

"Are you smiling? I think you are, I can hear it in your voice."

Sherlock adjusts himself so that he's now hugging his knees, the sofa supports his weight as he leans his shoulder against it.

"Why do you ask?"

John's right. You _can_ hear the smile. The content and the carelessness and the warmth emanate beautifully. It's musical. Maybe the afternoon is only having nasty effects on one.

"Because that is something that would be worth opening my eyes for, you see."

John opens his eyes.

Sherlock focuses on John intently. He's not changed his expression, unless you count the slight widening of his grin.

"Sherlock…"

He can tell that now, John needs him to _hear_. Something triggers in that surprisingly-thick-skull-for-such-a-genius, John needs him to _listen. _So he says nothing. His fingers twitch, and he simply nods.

"It's all of this quiet that has me thinking." John starts. He supposes this is something he should have said a long time ago. Now on a lovely rainy afternoon, after being left alone with his thoughts for too long, John's pouring his manly buggering heart out.

"There's this ridiculous problem with having too much free time, Sherlock, and that is being left alone with your thoughts. If you ignore them, they scream your name, they claw and bite and tear you apart until they have your attention. Maybe if I had control of my 'mind palace' like you do I'd be able to store things like this away, I'd be able to tuck them in a little safe and they'd leave me be. "

"Leave you be." Sherlock acknowledges he's still paying attention to John's monologue.

"But I can't do that. So here they are, ponderings of the past and present, and future filling me up in only an instant or two. Bleeding reality, it decides to creep up on you really quick sometimes."

"Reality?" Sherlock questions.

"Yeah. I've been here, what, 5 years? 3 of them you were gone. What the hell happens now? I'm getting old. This life is fantastic, now that you're back. But it's not going to last forever. We're both going to want something more, eventually."

"What more could I want?"

John sighs. He can't really help the rush of warmth he gets after hearing Sherlock speak those words. But that is exactly the issue. _Sherlock could never want anything more from this_. Not the way John does. John sits up a bit so he can see Sherlock properly.

"You're bound to want something more. For three years you ran off around on your own, kicking assassin arse and whatnot. You _lived._ And I sat here alone. Waiting for you to come back, and I thought you were dead! So you _weren't _coming back! So you can see what I did with my life! I knew you were not coming back and all I did was wait for you!"

John's voice trembles. The last thing he wants is to attack Sherlock, but this was what he feels. He's

"What the _hell _am I supposed to do?! When you decide you're not getting enough excitement here in London, or when you decide you work alone and you don't need my help anymore! Three years of thinking you were gone, and you can see what that did to me."

Sherlock eyes flicker with worry. He wants to help him, he wants the man before him to stop and to realise. He wants John to _realise_.

John lowers his voice. He's no longer shouting, but he's certainly not collected. John's terrified. He's filled with rage. He's overflowing with fear. He's anxious. He's desperate. This is not going away.

"_Do you think that I could get on with my life like a normal bloke if you left me again Sherlock?"_

Silence. Sherlock's eyes wander to John's soft, sturdy hands, each of them now clutching his knees with a considerable amount of strength. It's quite obvious John should be hurting himself.

"Stop that John."

"Stop what?"

Sherlock looks at John pleadingly, his glance is locked. His expression says everything he doesn't quite know how to explain, everything he doesn't quite understand himself. Sherlock's looking ever intently into John's eyes, and begging him to understand, to just _figure it out._

Sherlock lifts one hesitant hand toward the doctor. He wraps his cold, slender fingers around the soldier's tight grip, and squeezes his fingers gently.

They're _both _shaking.

"John?"

"….."

John's positively dumbfounded. Of all of the reactions… this is on the "In your dreams, John" list. Perhaps Sherlock doesn't understand what he's doing?

_Sherlock is a sociopath. Sherlock is a sociopath. Sherlock is a sociopath._ John repeats the words over and over in his head, but the fingers wrapped around his own beg to differ.

Wrong. John is wrong. So gorgeously, wonderfully wrong.

Sherlock leans in slowly, closing the majority of the already quite small amount of space that exists between them. With his hands still clasped onto John's furthest hand and kneecap, he lowers his head, tickling John's skin with his silky curls, and presses his lips tenderly to John's forehead.

John's unsure whether to laugh or shout or scream for help while he reaches to cup Sherlock's edgy cheek. He pulls Sherlock down to his lips.

They're hovering, their lips just barely apart, grinning like schoolchildren.

_Finally. _Sherlock thinks. _He realises._

And with the final six words spoken for the rest of the afternoon, Sherlock whispers the end to each and every last one of John's worries.

"_What more could I possibly want?"_

_END_


End file.
